


Arts of Treason

by miikkaa_xx



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/miikkaa_xx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>slight!AU. Gwen finds that loyalty may also lie in thieves, liars, and killers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arts of Treason

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings** spoilers for the S5 finale, and slight AU where Mordred lives at the end. this work is unbeta'd - feel free to point out any errors in writing or characterisation! :)

-

**i.**

Mordred is the youngest of the knights, and the newest, and Gwen cannot help the unease that slides up her spine when he jousts with the others in the courtyard, gaze flickering over her husband, a gloved hand around the handle of a weapon – be it knife, spear, or sword.

Gwen knows all her knights – the failings of Elyan, the insecurities of Gwaine, the gullibility of Percival, the blindness of Lancelot, the sacrificial tendencies of Leon, the stubborn arrogance of her own husband. Yet this one remains untouched and unperceived – his face so soft and wide-eyed, a mere boy in age, a man in killing.

He thinks her innocent, she knows. He thinks her incapable of error, of villainy, of untruthfulness. This is where he lies wrong, but it is a mere shallow observation, made more for her own security and judgement than to assess his qualities as a man sworn to protect Albion and its King.

For that, Gwen tracks him as one might an animal around the castle, peering down long hallways where he strides down, his voice cheerful, his words gentle, as if this espionage will lead to some sort of understanding to his inner character.

**ii.**

She is not blind to men’s affections. She is Queen, of Camelot, of Albion, and knows the spark of lust in eyes of whoever gazes upon her. Arthur has always been an all-consuming fire, his mouth ever-searching for her own, his fingers grazing down whatever part he may press himself again whether in public or private.

Gwaine had once looked at her with such curiousity but it had vanished into the air like all his womanly fancies, for he was a man of duty and loyalty first and foremost. Merlin, she remembers, once considered it, but that too would vanish in time from the pressure of what was to come – magic users and Morgana’s violence and a marriage that would elevate Gwen from servant to Queen.

Lancelot – oh, _Lancelot_ , blind to everything but the own beating of his heart, a foolish dictator of his actions. How he had burned all too quick and all too bright for a promise that would never be kept – a fool, by the end, and Gwen has done her mourning and left him in honoured ashes now.

Leon is the quiet fire at her back, the muffled crackle at the hearth of a warm, happy home. He stands at her side as loyally as he does Arthur, and Gwen keeps him there, presses her hand to his shoulder and smiles, follows his warm gaze, too honour-bound to shine with something as human as lust.

She is not ignorant, she is not blind, she is not unaware. Mordred’s eyes spark with attentiveness and danger, his child-like face, his cupid’s bow mouth a mere sheep’s guise to what lurks underneath. His attention, while not unexpected, hunts her down dinner tables and conference rooms. It is something different from these other knights – from Arthur, Lancelot, Leon.

Gwen keeps the thought close and the curiousity closer. Only danger lies there, at the end of the shadowed path she wishes to tread, where Mordred’s thoughts lurk and his desires spark.

**iii.**

‘You wished an audience with me, my queen?’

He kneels, as is customary, and Gwen grips the hidden knife in her sleeve as the guards shut the door behind them. They are in the conference room – a round stone table moved into a spacious, high-ceilinged room where the sunlight leaves slats of gold over his pale skin, his dark hair, his bright eyes.

‘Welcome, Mordred,’ she smiles, a bit strained, ‘I have not had the chance to make a closer acquaintance with you.’

‘Do you do so with every knight?’

‘Only the ones I have not had the pleasure of knowing beforehand,’ she replies, voice becoming more steady, more queenly. She is the one in power here, and he would never try anything here – with guards at the door and the light burning so brightly against the stone floor while Arthur is in the courtyard just below. If she strains her ears, his voice can be heard through the glass pane. It is a mild reassurance. She finds more security in the blade that has warmed against her skin.

‘And how may I serve my queen?’

‘You may tell me of your past. How you came to serve my husband.’

‘Your husband has not told you?’ His face is open with surprise and curiousity.

Gwen licks her bottom lip in thought, and watches how he tracks the movement before flicking his gaze upwards, no change in expression, but his eyes seem brighter, fiercer. ‘He told me only that you killed a once cherished friend.’

Mordred seems more embarrassed by the incident instead of remorseful, and it makes Gwen’s hair stand on end. ‘It was an unfortunate accident. My – ah, _our_ king was in danger, as you well know.’

‘Of course. Thank you.’ They fall into silence – him waiting and her watching. They are at a standstill, and Gwen wonders not of Mordred’s past but of his intentions. That is all she wishes, and that is exactly what he will not give. He fashions himself loyal, and worthy of sacrifice, but there is something in the way he moves, the way he fights, watches, eats, carries himself that Gwen knows is inherently wrong. Unlike any of the knights around her husband.

‘May I speak frankly?’ asks Mordred, face tilted upwards to her, a show of paltry innocence and submission.

‘Please.’

‘Do you love your husband?’ His voice is calm, steady, as if this is an ordinary question posed between close friends.

Gwen balks. ‘Does it not seem to you that I do?’

Mordred only smiles more widely, eyes shining in the sunlight that no longer feels warm. ‘I only wish for you to know that I find you with the sweetest disposition, my queen. Intruding on such intimacies – my apologies.’

It is coldest apology she has ever received and the flattery even more so. ‘You overstep your bounds, knight,’ she reminds him, her voice cool and firm. His mouth parts in breath and he lets out a soft laugh.

‘You are truly a queen,’ he tells her, his tone insistent. ‘You are. I have,’ a pause, a breath, ‘met another queen, once. And heard of many more. But you, my lady, eclipse them all.’

‘I would have you return to your duties,’ says Gwen, standing, trying to stem the flow of his words. He stands in turn, his smile bright and expression joyful.

‘Of course, I have enjoyed this meeting,’ and he nods and turns in a flurry of his red cloak, walking out of the room altogether, footsteps disappearing down the hall.

Gwen’s palms are sweaty and the knife feels hot tucked in her sleeve. She slides it out and drops it on the floor, hearing the reassuring clatter of metal on stone as if to anchor herself to reality.

**iv.**

His eyes are never on his food or the cup of wine on the table. They track over her skin as if she is an ornament in the décor of the palace. She wishes he would be distracted by Elyan at his side and Percival on the other, but nothing removes his insistent gaze on her hands, her collarbone, her eyes.

Arthur does not notice. Arthur will never notice. He is arrogant and stubborn and oblivious, and perhaps this is why Gwen takes to ruling as second-nature, for she must temper this man just as she must temper a kingdom.

It has been but a day since their meeting and Mordred’s attentions upon her visage have intensified. He kneels as all the others before her and Arthur, but watches her only, and it irks Gwen. For is it not Arthur that has claimed his loyalty and willing sacrifice? Why must she endure his attentions?

However, it is not hindrance enough to call attention towards. Gwen continues in her duties, and Mordred is occupied with Arthur and his various war games within the country. Gwen worries as one would, but it is not her sole occupation and she keeps track of justice in Camelot, of finances, of agriculture, of lawlessness and lawfulness.

Perhaps this will be her downfall – for her stresses mount up and her husband’s attentions fade away as he camps in the woods with Merlin and his knights. Somewhere, he kills and hunts and rids the world of some horror or another, and Gwen tends to what normalcy is present around her. It is a good balance for ruling, but not for marriage.

**v.**

Gwen’s throat feels hoarse and ruined and she drinks down the glass of water at the table gratefully once the rest of the council have exited the room. She stares balefully at the stack of papers in front of her and wonders vaguely which member will engage her in a debate the next day over altering a law or resolving a land claim, or revoking the treatment of prisoners and their reintroduction into Camelot once their time was up.

He sneaks up on her without her knowledge as she is busy gathering up her scrolls and parchment, tucking the cork into the ink bottle. It isn’t until he chuckles softly by her side that her head jerks up, eyes wide, jaw clenched as she feels the dagger strapped to her ankle.

‘Mordred,’ she greets icily, regaining her composure quickly enough.

‘My lady,’ he bows low. He straightens, smiles. ‘I hear Lord Titus,’ here, Gwen pauses, the name of her staunch council opponent on Mordred’s tongue bringing both a hint of confusion and fear into her being, ‘obtains votes from his peers from coin rather than honest debate.’

‘Indeed?’ Gwen does not look at him – focuses on piling the parchment and stacking the feather and ink bottle on top. ‘You hear things that do not concern you, knight.’

Mordred shrugs, an acquiesce. ‘I simply thought they might concern other parties.’

‘You would do well to busy yourself with the protection of my husband,’ she says, stern and fierce, her spine straight, glaring directly at his bright eyes. ‘Instead of playing at politics.’

Her mind is racing even as she says this – the knife at her ankle is warm and sharp, and she can pick up a spilled ink bottle to get at it without suspicion.

He steps back, bowing low, hearing a dismissal loud and clear. ‘As you wish, my queen.’

By the time he leaves, Gwen can feel the first twinges of it – of control and power – right at her fingertips, ready to spark against the stone of the council table and set everything ablaze.

**vi.**

The council debates strain at her patience and the votes sway ever which way, never living up to a majority on one side or another. Gwen walks the fine line of queenly and vicious – ready to abolish the council altogether and establish a sole monarchal dictatorship, but she understands the shadows of democracy that lurk, the understanding of the smaller folk, and the not sowing of enmity within those that own the lands around Camelot.

Ruling is ever a complicated occupation, and so Gwen does not take well to Mordred interrupting her downtime one evening as she takes her dinner in the council room, pouring over parchments and making notes of potential arguments she can throw forward for the next day.

‘Evening, Mordred,’ she almost snarls, patience wearing thin. ‘Anything you’d like?’

Mordred is slow, careful, carrying himself well with his chainmail and sword strapped to his hip. He observes the table more than her and she stares at him expectantly, waiting for a response. Finally, he meets her gaze, mouth half-quirked in amusement as he bows low.

‘Tis a busy evening for you, no?’ he inquires casually.

‘Thus your presence here is both unneeded and unwelcomed,’ she snaps.

‘I see. I only wished to know a long-held rumour. It would mean much if the entire thing was cleared up.’ He deliberately seats himself beside her, placing them at equals at the table. Gwen feels the silver metal of the dinner knife in her hand, the glint of it under the firelight from the walls.

She gives in – for fostering respect and loyalty of her husband’s knight would benefit her more than having a few extra minutes alone with her temper. It is a welcome distraction for now – but Gwen has all the inclination to send him off as quickly as possible.

‘Speak your mind, then,’ she says, drinking deep of her cup of water.

‘You once plotted to kill your husband.’

Gwen’s mind stutters to a halt. A flood of darkness swims into her vision and she can still feel the horrifying, suffocating feeling of magic in her veins, wrapping around her bones, controlling her throat and her body as if they were mere child’s toys.

Mordred tilts his head, observing her tense up. ‘Arthur is a good man, but good men can also do bad things.’

She snaps her gaze to him, throat constricted but she forces the words out anyway. ‘Magic has hurt this kingdom in many ways. I will not deny what my body and voice seemed to do – but they were not of my own volition.’

‘Yes, of course,’ and he says the words as if disappointed, as if Gwen could have done so much more, so much better. ‘But I killed the one who held you under her grasp, and now…’ _You may do as you wish._ The words hang cold and silent between them.

Her smile is sharp and bitter. ‘You tread treasonous ground.’

Mordred snaps up the parting word as he always does when he stands to indicate his departure, ‘I only follow in fresh footsteps.’

**vii.**

On the eve of one more long-awaited departure, Arthur presses his mouth hot against her own and kisses the breath out of her as if it is the last he will ever receive. Gwen’s fingers catch around his neck and she tries to decipher his intentions behind his eyes, but he only smiles and slips away from her grasp.

‘You have been to many wars, and you have returned from every single one,’ she reminds him, patient as ever. ‘You will be with Merlin and the knights and the rest of our troops.’

‘Something feels different,’ he tells her, face open and honest.

Gwen thinks of darkness, of the shine in Morgana’s eyes, of Mordred’s deceptive smiles. ‘You will come back. I know it.’ She doesn’t, of course. She is but a mortal, magic-less and with her own failings. Yet, it reassures her husband, and he parts from her with a stride in his step.

She does not visit the stables where the knights must be gathering their horses for a long day’s ride, and only peers from a second floor window, watching as two, three, four men gather in the courtyard, idly waiting for the others.

Mordred comes up behind her in a rush, a pack in hand as he jogs down the stone corridor to get to the stairs at the end. However, he skids to a stop beside her, bowing low. ‘My queen.’

‘Mordred,’ greets Gwen, unprepared for this meeting and feeling vulnerable for attack, an entirely irrational notion towards a knight, but something expected from herself when it comes regarding the youth.

‘Did you wish Arthur goodbye, yet?’ he asks, as if he is allowed to pry into her personal life as he does.

‘Yes,’ replies Gwen, taken aback, the word slipping from her mouth without her permission. She straightens, recovering from the surprise, and smiles coolly at him. ‘Do hurry, Mordred. It seems the others already have claimed steeds.’

‘Yes,’ he nods, but he doesn’t move, as if caught up by her stare. ‘You once asked for my motivations in serving Arthur, weeks upon weeks ago.’

‘That I did,’ she allows, cautious.

‘I saw something good in him,’ says Mordred, his voice painfully sincere, his expression open for all to see. ‘He was a good king. But you – you are a better queen. A queen to end all others.’

Gwen stiffens, grounding her feet against the stone as if to reassure herself that she can escape, run away from this inordinate attention. ‘You should leave, Mordred,’ she says, voice low.

‘You’re right. I will come back, though, and I hope to have many more discussions with you,’ he says, as if it is a promise, and resumes his sprint down the corridor.

A few minutes later, he appears in the courtyard. She peeks out and Arthur waves at her. She wonders if he notices how she watches Mordred intently beside him, how the youth grips his sword handle as if he is ready to use it, gaze flickering from her to her husband. Danger, screams Gwen’s nerves, but she is too high up to stop them from leaving the gates of Camelot.

**viii.**

Arthur dies in the war, and Leon delivers the news with an ache in his soul and regret etched deep within his expression. She holds his shoulder and mourns quietly with him, his forehead pressed against her cheek as he cries and she quietly sighs out grief into his hair.

Many of the knights return, grievously injured, and Mordred is one of them, his skin paler than usual, but his eyes are bright and attentive and he finds her when she visits the medical station in the basement where Gaius and Merlin attend to the wounded.

‘Do you mourn, my queen?’ he asks her, and Gwen does not deign him with a response. It does not seem to stop his mouth at all. ‘He was a good man, Arthur. I have heard of many great things that he had accomplished only few years ago.’

Past tense, thinks Gwen, and it comes so easily to his lips. It comes easily to her thoughts as well, and while it alarms her in some vague way, it is not entirely a surprise. She has loved Arthur, long and deep and fierce, but she has also been hurt and betrayed by him, and though forgiveness has always been easy towards him, it does not heal wounds, only ignores them.

‘Merlin will cast him off tomorrow,’ she tells him, ‘do recover so you may pay your appropriate respects by the morning.’

‘You’re cold with me,’ remarks Mordred. Gwen meets his gaze head-on.

‘I have always been, Mordred.’

‘Yes,’ he sighs as though contented. ‘My queen. I hope to see you in the morning, then.’

**ix.**

The knights and mourners limp into the main courtyard where Arthur’s body is dressed and made up – looking as kingly in his death as he had in life. Gwen stands beside the stretcher with Merlin on the other side, stone-faced in his grief. When noon hits, Merlin gathers Arthur’s body and places it in a horse-drawn cart. Percival and Mordred steer a second horse-cart with a boat, and they travel out of the city and down the path where the lake resides.

They do not return until nightfall. Gwen takes her dinner in her chambers and touches her dry cheeks and wonders what it is that eats at her. There are men and women in the throne room, she knows, that will usurp her position and will do so willingly. Agravaine’s ilk – back-stabbing and cruel. Political people with no heart for ruling.

The knights are loyal, but to a dead king. Though she knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Leon and Percival and all the rest will aid her in any physical bout she must win, they cannot operate in the shadows. They are loyal, light-bound creatures. Made for fighting and not spying.

It takes a week for Gwen to gather the courage to summon Mordred to her chambers, and while her gut twists and clenches in terror, there is something in her that _knows_. Knows Mordred, or at least supposes at his intentions that lurk beneath glittering eyes and soft, pale face.

**x.**

After dinner, she sweeps into her rooms, placing her crown aside, and waits upon his arrival while seated at a desk, fingers brushing over law forms and other judicial matters that are spread over the wood. She reads a document on the conditions where women may inherit property and idly scrawls notes of distaste and support in the margins, making a mental note to discuss it in the morning with the council.

It takes half an hour for a knock on her door and a maid to introduce the knight Mordred into the chamber. Mordred is dressed in tunic, trousers and boots, his cape and chainmail set aside, along with sword. There is still a knife tucked in his belt, but he seems more boy than knight, and it is an almost comforting sight for Gwen.

‘My queen,’ he bows low. Gwen gestures for him to sit in the chair before her desk, and he obeys without a word.

‘I would have a request.’

‘Anything.’

Her mouth shapes the words, feels the power slide up her spine, curl headily at her belly and spread to the tips of her fingers. Mordred’s eyes gleam in the dimly-lit room and she knows he understands. ‘Tomorrow, Lord Titus will return home without a coin purse and a promise not to bribe.’

Mordred leans forward, lays his hands flat against the table of his desk, and smiles slowly, ‘yes, my queen.’

When she reaches forwards and meets his mouth with her own, he tastes of smoke and spice, heat as blazing as Arthur would have been, and something like the darkest secret she has always known slides into her blood when Mordred pulls away, a hand on her cheek, murmuring, ‘finally.’

Gwen’s hands drip with blood, but he holds her with his own – long, pale fingers stained red with a would-be-queen and a never-was-king. It feels something like absolution.

-

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say for myself except Gwen deserves men who obey her every wish and submit to her whims. and then I wrote this. hope you enjoyed! :)
> 
> x-posted to [tumblr](http://alighterwithlove.tumblr.com/post/39329289636/arts-of-treason-pg-14-merlin).


End file.
